Her mischievous smile, her mocking tone, combined with the words themselves, had an immediately tranquilizing effect upon him. Not for the first time by any means he had a chilling, queasy misgiving that there was truth in that view of a marriage between them. After a pause he said:
“But what will you do?”
“Blessed if I know,” replied she, as if the matter were of not the smallest consequence.
“You’ll have no friends. Nobody’ll dare be friends with you.”
“Have I any friends now?—any worth calling my own?”
“Then, as I understand it, you haven’t got much money. About enough to pay for dresses?”
“About.”
“Then—what will you do?” repeated he, a real, friendly solicitude in his voice and, better still, in his eyes.
“That’s unimportant. I’m escaping worse than I could possibly be running into.”
“Marry me, Beatrice,” cried he. “It’s not a bad bet if you lose.”